


I Saved Our Star and Now They Think I'm Impotent

by hati_skoll



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Drug-Induced Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Episode Ignis Verse 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14814714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hati_skoll/pseuds/hati_skoll
Summary: "Noct sneaked out to buy painkillers and got himself sex drugs instead."He stealthily elbows his Shield, the traitor."I see," Iggy says, looking ever so disappointed, "Well, I'm sure we can fit a chemistry lesson into your schedule, to help you better discern the differences between analgesics and stimulants."





	I Saved Our Star and Now They Think I'm Impotent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonSoul123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonSoul123/gifts).



> I'm sorry, I swear there was supposed to be more smut, but it kind of gave up on me. Also, I hope the biology bit's accurate enough, not my strongest suit, unfortunately.
> 
> For the prompt:
> 
> Killed by his headaches Noct grabs some pills from the store and takes them to ease the pain. Unfortunately if’s the wrong kind of pill he took, leaving him with a quite obvious problem – named a hard on – to be solved. Of course he would never admit that. But one (or more) of the chocobros find him and help.

After narrowly averting the end of the world as they know it and certain poetic death, Noctis finds that there's something therapeutic about signing off on paperwork, something peaceful in monotonous drudgery – but then, there's also something terribly migraine-inducing when numbers for that new transport budget don't quite add up. He's been crunching down on fuel prices – skyrocketing, as usual – and adjusting labour costs after factoring in that new minimum wage law the council's passed last week, still… it's not quite right.

And he knows it's not his job to look at the numbers; someone's already done that before the report's reached his desk, but it bothers him. Gladio's been half-teasing Noctis lately, about how he's picked up the habit of micro-managing from Iggy. And Iggy has, in turn, been pushing Ebony at him like a proud… mother hen? But the male equivalent, so. Father cock absolutely does _not_ sound right. Noctis groans and attempts to suffocate himself on his paperwork. If he's thinking about cocks, then it's probably time to take a break.

Which is how he ends up strolling the streets amidst the growing party-going crowds in the fading sunset. Restoration efforts have been highly successful, and Insomnia is… flourishing. She's _alive_. Noctis looks down the row of refurbished storefronts, and the cleanly resurfaced asphalt; and his chest suddenly feels overfull – which may just be heartburn from that curry Ignis made earlier in the evening and not any deeply poignant feeling of accomplishment, he's pushing thirty-five after all.

His body decides to drive the point home by way of an increasingly persistent headache, so Noctis stops by the twenty-four hour drugstore run by one of Sania's apprentices – a cheerful boy of not-quite-twenty, whose guileless, endlessly optimistic exterior hides a brilliant intellect.

"Your majesty!" the kid yelps, coming up to greet him with an awkward half-bow – but hey, A for effort.

Noctis winces. "Hi. Um, Petrus right? Mind using your inside voice, I kind of gave my guards the slip."

"Oh," the boy looks stricken, "Sorry, your majesty."

"It's alright. I think I still have another thirty minutes before anyone raises the alarm, anyway."

Petrus gives him a tentative smile, before asking, "Are you looking for something, your majesty?"

"Uh," and because he doesn't want the kid running over to get his stuff for him like he's an invalid, Noctis says, "I'll just look around the place for a bit. Thanks."

It takes him fifteen minutes to realise the store needs a more accessible shelving system. Maybe geniuses have a different kind of spatial understanding. Noctis looks up to see Petrus eyeballing him at a polite distance, like he's waiting for Noctis to do something amazing while browsing through rows of… tampons, great.

"Are you picking up groceries for Lady Amicitia, your majesty? She likes the brand to your left," Petrus says, overly helpful.

"No?" it comes out as a question and Noctis tries again, with – hopefully – the appropriate amount of kingly severity, he's never gotten the hang of it the way his dad had, "And why would you know that, young man?"

Petrus looks a little cowed, and Noctis feels sorry instead. "She drops by a lot. And she has Lord Amicitia pick up her grocery list sometimes, too. He always complains- I mean, I wasn't _spying_. He complains _to me_. Which is totally cool with me, you know, not that him complaining about Lady Amicitia is _cool_ , but-"

 "Okay, I get it. Calm down, take a breath. Take five breaths."

The boy gulps in air – pointedly, like he's doing it on royal command, which, okay, is kind of the case. But he's less red in the face when he's done at least. "I'm sorry, your majesty."

Noctis briefly wonders if the kid ever gets tired of saying, 'your majesty'. He considers that young, hopeful eagerness, and that's probably his answer right there.

"It's cool," Noctis says, realising belatedly that he's parroting the kid, and coming to the unfortunate epiphany that at thirty-five, his vocabulary's on par with a not-quite-twenty.

"So… you're not looking for something, your majesty?"

Noctis tries to give a gallant shrug, scowling when something pops. Gods, he really _has_ been rusting away in his office. Maybe Promp's right, maybe he ought to take up jogging, but. The idea of waking up at _dawn_ is distinctly unappealing, no matter how mature and responsible he's supposed to be. While Noctis mulls over his impending midlife crisis, his headache recedes to a dull reminder at his temples, thankfully – yes, score one for youth.

"I just feel a little… achy these days," he eventually tells Petrus, "Nothing serious. I'm thirty-five. My joints are creaking. My bones are rattling. I practically have a foot in the grave. Don't repeat that to anyone."

He can see the headlines now, the weeping masses at his doorstep. The absolute PR nightmare that's going to swamp them with twice the paperwork and public appearances, Ignis is going to _strangle_ him. Oh, and great, the kid looks _devastated_.

Noctis struggles to find the right words. "Look, I'm kidding. Okay, not exactly, but I'm being overly dramatic. It's really just the physically strenuous activities that bother me." Like walking, walking is physically strenuous.

Petrus frowns then, perplexed, before his eyes widen and Noctis can almost see the metaphorical light bulb turning on above his head. The boy says, "Physically strenuous," very slowly, like he's fifty-percent sure about what that means and not at all sure if he likes it.

"Yeah, like when I'm sparring with Gladio, and he gets me like," Noctis tries to vaguely mime a chokehold, "I can hardly get him off before I'm totally zapped. We used to go three rounds, min, before he utterly wrecks my ass. Now, it's more like half a round. On a good day."

"That's…" Petrus drifts off, red-faced, probably trying to find an appropriately sympathetic expression, "That's uh…" he rallies and says, "A perfectly common symptom of aging", although he's immediately backpedalling with, "Not that I'm saying you're _old_ , your majesty, just-"

"No, spare me the polite lies, I know I'm old," Noctis grins, "I see it in the mirror every day."

Petrus looks like he wants to protest, but then he gets that slightly pinched look of a student who's been told not to question the textbook, even if the textbook is _blatantly inaccurate_. "Well, _I_ don't think you're old, your majesty. And we've stocked up with just what you need, don't worry, we keep it in the backroom."

The boy ducks back behind the counter, returning with a nondescript palm-sized pill bottle, white, unlabelled. Noctis turns it around in his hands sceptically. "This is it?"

"Everyone who's used it swears by it. It's pretty strong stuff," Petrus says, on surer footing now that he's in his field of expertise, "They're still in the process of getting it approved by the Department of National Health – it's primary purpose is really for treating patients in the early-to-mid stages of excorrigia paraplegia, tests have shown unprecedented effectiveness in repairing scourge related muscle damage… but I've been asked to make some adjustments to the composition by, um, a couple of people sharing your condition, your majesty."

The boy pauses, as if waiting for Noctis' input. He gives a vague kind of hum and Petrus is off talking a mile a minute again. "It's worked as it should for them, so we've been getting more requests for it by the day– uh, you don't have to worry, we always screen our clients before handing these out, I promise! Sania’s really careful about this stuff. Oh! Of course, you don't need to be screened, your majesty. I mean, you won’t. Um. You won’t… abuse it. Of course. Duh."

Huh. He’s not sure if the kid's just insinuated that royals are above the law or above the temptations of non-regulation narcotics, but. Well. He'll have Iggy pull up the report from DoNaH about the drug tomorrow or something, if it's as good as the kid is selling it, then they can help hurry it along into implementation. "Sounds like you've been doing good work, Petrus. Charge it to the Crown.

The boy glows under praise, heartily hammering away at his poor register with an enthusiastic, "Yes, your majesty!"

"And uh," Noctis cringes at the thought of multiple get-well-soon bouquets piling up at the citadel, "We'll have to keep this between us."

"Of course, your majesty," the boy says.

"Great. Well, um, have a good night then. And thank you for your help."

"It's been a pleasure, your majesty!" Petrus shouts as Noctis retreats out the door, after which he proceeds to flush a violent, bright red that Noctis doesn't see, while planting his face on the countertop, "It's been a _pleasure_? That's such a stupid– Oh my gods, I'm an _idiot_."

*

Noctis is once again situated behind his heavy oak desk, alone in his office, safely ensconced behind the citadel's gates and his many, many disapproving Crownsguard – led by one especially disapproving Captain Gladiolus Amicitia, when he pops the unmarked pill into his mouth.

Only _one_ every forty-eight hours, a harried Petrus informed him after chasing him down a street, and it'll take about thirty minutes to kick in. The kid squeaked out a barely audible, "Andremembertostayhydrated", before making himself scarce – which is… weird, but not outside the acceptable realms of Petrus-brand weirdness.

He thinks he's beginning to feel the effects of the drug, after finally getting the budget numbers right – fucking decimal points are an absolute menace. The dull throb in his skull's been blurring out over the past couple of minutes, and there's a nice, warm feeling unfurling in his belly. It's really quite pleasant, like a full belly of fresh milk before bedtime.

Three paragraphs into another report, proposing cloud seeding in Duscae to combat the recent rash of bushfires, the heat in his belly goes from comfortable and sleepy to still-comfortable but horny. It's a little confusing because he's not sure what his libido finds appealing about the lack of statistical significance in increased precipitation volumes for areas with seeding agents introduced. Unfortunately, the only other solution his council has to offer is a rain dance for Ramuh – he sees _that_ report next on the pile – and the Sixes have already told Noctis in no certain terms that humanity is on their own for the next hundred years or so, while they sleep or fuck off to wherever gods go to for a vacation.

Noctis' dick seems to like that thought a lot, because he feels an exceptionally strong jerk at it. And… yeah, sorry buddy, no vacations for us in the near future. Unless, you know, it's getting all hot and bothered for the _astrals_ , in which case he must be harbouring some latent oedipal-slash-electra complex for Bahamut and that's a whole other can of worms.

Another two paragraphs down, and the words are blurring into each other. Noctis now has a raging hard-on of the like he's only seen back when he was an awkward boner-popping adolescent, and he really thinks he's too old for this shit. Seriously, what gives?

He's getting up to rub one out in the adjoining bathroom, when his legs promptly give out and he goes down hard, taking half the contents of his desk with him – including the phone which has a direct line to his secretary out in the receiving hall.

"Your majesty?" It's Didacus on night-shift today.

Noctis groans at the upended handset, because fucking _ouch_ , and there's a more urgent, "Your majesty? Are you okay?"

Shit. _Is_ he okay? Inconvenient boner and sudden clumsiness aside, he feels perfectly fine. But gods, he's so fucking _hard_ it hurts. And obviously, he isn't going to tell that to his night-shift secretary, so he bites out, "I'm fine, Didacus. Sorry for the– Ah, fuc– I. Just dropped the phone, sorry."

"Your majesty, are you sure? If you're feeling unwell, I can ring up Dr Yeager and–"

"I'm good!" Noctis almost yells, "Sorry, uh, I'm–" he sucks in a breath as the cotton of his underwear chafes against cock, "I'm fine. No need for Dr Yeager. She's off the clock."

"Not for you, she isn't," Didacus says, "Your majesty–"

"Don't call Dr Yeager, royal decree," Noctis tells him.

"But King Noc–"

Noctis doesn't hear anymore because he's slammed the handset back into its cradle. The state of his cock is becoming very, very annoyingly… exigent. That's the word Iggy would use. It's _exigent_ , unapologetically demanding attention. He'll say it with that crisp lilt and if he's feeling particularly raunchy, there'll be that ironic almost-smile tugging at the corners of his kissable cupid-bow lips. It's to the thought of Iggy's fanciful vocabulary that Noctis reaches into his pants, which is some level of weird, but– It's not like Noctis gets hard when those old farts from his dad's council throw big words in his face. They're often accompanied by a pompous arch of the brow and a dismissive flare of the nostrils. Fucking sticks in the mud.

Iggy, on the other hand. Like everything else in his life, Iggy uses his fanciful vocabulary as a weapon _for Noctis_. He spars with the most verbose, most eloquent of ancient, blue-blooded elitists and rips them to shreds with his dagger-sharp witticisms. And it's just… really fucking sexy.

Noctis moans as he clenches a fist around his cock, mind going to Ignis' perfect lips and the hot cavern of his mouth, taking all of Noct to hilt. His advisor really does have an amazing tongue. Really, really fucking amazing. He's sure there's a more aptly descriptive word for it, but right now, he's a little too preoccupied with his hard-on-from-hell to be cherry-picking adjectives. He comes in spurts of hot white, while muffling his cry on the soft silk of his sleeve.

And that really should have been the end of it, but it isn't. His cock is stirring again, even before his spent has cooled and dried on his pants– Come on. Really? He's thirty five. He must have lost his no-refractory-period passive buff years ago, along with the hormonal mood swings and feelings of inadequacy– Wait, no, that last one's still a Thing. It's probably one of those adolescent quirks people say you'll grow out of, but you never actually do. Doesn't explain the hard-on though. Because he's a hundred percent sure he's grown out of _that_ quirk. Which can only mean one thing:

Complicated Astral Sex Magic.

Definitely. Without a doubt. Noctis squirms, trying to get into a more comfortable position. His desk – while sturdy and perfectly balanced for long hours of writing – does not an agreeable pillow make; and his floor – while smooth and spotlessly clean – lacks the luxurious plushness of his orgy-sized feathered mattress. Not to mention, he's sprawled out across it like a behemoth-skin rug, which seems a little undignified, all things considered. He hauls himself up, back against the desk as he stretches out his bad leg, startling when his foot connects with something and he hears the rattle of a pill bottle. He blinks. Okay, so maybe it's less sex _magic_ and more sex _drug_.

He nudges the bottle again with the toe of his shoe, watches it roll and rattle, all innocent-looking and deceptive. Fuck. Has… Petrus given him the wrong medication? The kid's a genius, but he's also a bit of an airhead. Or… maybe it's an allergic reaction to one of the drug's components. A very weirdly localised allergic reaction, but. He tries to recall the conversation he's had with Petrus, remembers the inordinate amount of stuttering and blushing, and remembers himself saying that he and Gladio used to go three rounds before his Shield utterly _wrecks his ass_. And that's after the whole spiel about age catching up with him.

Fucking fuck. So maybe that was a little… misleading, but. He's thirty-five not fifty. He's not _impotent_. Fuck. Petrus thinks he's impotent. Double fuck. Petrus' prescribed him medication for his alleged impotence. Triple fuck. Noctis thumps the back of his head against his desk and groans. The guys will never let him hear the end of this. If they hear about this. Ergo, they can't hear about this.

There's a loud knock on his door and Noctis nearly jumps out of his skin. "Noct?"

The gods must hate him. For not going along with their whole sacrifice-your-life-to-save-all-of-Eos plan.

"Noct? You in there? You okay?" Gladio tries for the handle, only to discover that the door's locked – thankfully – so he knocks again, more insistently this time. "Didacus said your voice sounded weird over the phone."

Damn his overly concerned night-shift secretary. Noctis licks his lips, swallows around the lump in his throat and finds himself wishing it were Gladio's cock. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm okay."

He belatedly realises he should've just stayed quiet and pretended not to be in his office. Gods. This is all his cock's fault. His brain's sluggish from the lack of oxygen because all his blood's fled south.

Gladio stops knocking. "You gonna let me in or what?"

"Uh, one minute," Noctis calls, "My leg's fallen asleep."

"Are you sure you don't mean _you've_ fallen asleep?"

"Ha," Noctis forces out a chuckle, it sounds fake even to his own ears, "Can't get anything past you, big guy."

There's an awkward length of silence as Noctis struggles to get his erection under control, while Gladio waits out in the hallway, pretending he's bought into Noctis' half-assed fibbing. He's only biding his time, Noctis knows, his Shield won't let him off that easily. Not if he suspects Noctis to be anything other than in the pink of health.

And Noctis really doesn't want to blame Petrus. He _doesn't_ , because the kid only means well, but. Gods damn it, Petrus. He manages to get his feet under him, wobbling like a baby chocobo fresh out of its egg and trying his damnedest to relearn his motor skills because Gladio is going to call his shit out immediately if he's shaking like a leaf when he goes to open that door.

He's barely taken two steps before his bad knee gives up on him and he's once again crashing into the floor. And it's not three seconds before there's an even louder crash, his – previously locked – door flinging wide open. Noctis has a moment to stew over the addition of a new lock to the Crown's expenses, before his Shield's _there_ , filling up his field of vision and personal space, furious and blustering – which is basically Gladio-speak for _worried_.

"Iggy, Noct's been compromised," Gladio snaps into the mic at his collar.

Great. Now Iggy's going to be up his ass too. And… alright, he's not sure if that's necessarily a bad thing. "Have not!"

"Visible pupillary dilation, accelerated pulse and shortness of breath," Gladio continues right over him, there's a pause and he flashes a light in Noctis' eyes several times before barking, "No signs of abnormal light sensitivity."

"Fuck you," Noctis says half-heartedly, then moans, because that's exactly what he wants to do right now.

Gladio's eyes narrow. He runs his fingers through Noctis' hair, prodding about his skull gingerly, and all Noctis can think of is how much he wants Gladio's hand on his _other_ head. He bats his Shield away.

"Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy?"

"No," Noctis can't help the petulant whine in his voice, and Gladio _freezes_ at that. He's heard that whine far too many times when he's working Noctis up in bed to not recognise it for what it is. There really isn't a point to hiding it anymore, so Noctis just flops over like a beached Leviathan when Gladio flips him onto his back, gaze zeroing in on his crotch.

"Someone slipped you a drug?" Gladio asks, voice hard. It's not the only thing about Gladio that's hard, Noctis' lust-addled mind supplies unhelpfully. And he tries not to imagine being pinned underneath all that wonderfully toned muscle while he's given the pounding of a lifetime. He fails, because even if his sex imagination sucks – case in point, it doesn't – his muscle memory's working against him.

"It was an accident!"

"Someone _accidentally_ slipped you a drug?" Gladio asks again, incredulous now.

"I accidentally slipped myself a drug," Noctis groans, and he realises that makes absolutely no sense when he sees the confusion on Gladio's face. "Ugh. I– Fuck. I mean, I accidentally bought the wrong medication."

"That's," Gladio begins haltingly; his anger's slowly thawing into long-suffering exasperation, so his voice ends up back in its usual brand of drawling insouciance when he finishes with, "That's a huge fucking accident." There's a beat before he cracks up at his own unintended pun.

"Shut up." Noctis struggles not to pout, because he's thirty-five and way past pouting. "This is why I didn't want you in here. You're laughing at my misery."

Gladio notices the pill bottle then. He picks it up, turns it around in an attempt to find the label. "This isn't off-the-shelf."

"What? You think they sell sex drugs in the neighbourhood pharmacy?" Noctis huffs, before remembering that they _do_ as a matter of fact, "It's custom-made."

"Do I want to know why you had sex drugs custom-made?"

"I didn't," Noctis protests, and Gladio rattles the pill bottle pointedly in his face, "I told you it was an _accident_. I was trying to get _painkillers_ –"

Gladio stiffens a little at that.

"For my completely normal, standard, everyday headache," Noctis continues, "Nothing to freak out over. Anyway, I had a little… miscommunication with Petrus and I might have told him that I'm impotent–"

"You told him _what_?"

Gods. He really hates this part. "I said. I told him that _I'm impotent_."

"Oh, dear," Iggy says, appearing in the doorway.

Yeap, the gods definitely hate him. Noctis sighs, turning to squint at his advisor. "I hope that hallway's empty."

"Completely deserted," Iggy says without missing a beat, fucking smooth liar that he is. Noctis pretends not to hear the shuffling of multiple feet as Iggy enters the room, closing the door behind him to give them an illusion of privacy. "Now, what is this talk about impotence?"

"Do we have to have this conversation? Cause I'd prefer to skip it and go straight to the sex," Noctis says, trying not to rub himself against Gladio, who has a thigh temptingly between Noctis' legs.

Of course, if wishes were chocobos, they'll be suffering an avian overpopulation and Promp'll be on cloud nine. Gladio hands the pill bottle over to Iggy. "Noct sneaked out to buy painkillers and got himself sex drugs instead."

He stealthily elbows his Shield, the traitor.

"I see," Iggy says, looking ever so disappointed, "Well, I'm sure we can fit a chemistry lesson into your schedule, to help you better discern the differences between analgesics and stimulants."

"Specs," Noctis complains.

Iggy's lips quirk into the sexy almost-smile that's starred in way too many of Noctis' wanking fantasies. "You have to admit, such a misstep could _arouse_ unpleasant hearsay."

"Fucking terrible."

"Come now, majesty. Puns are an excellent way to _stimulate_ the mind."

"Ugh. That was so mind- _numbingly_ horrible, I'm not sure if I'll ever recover," Noctis replies, and then he officially gives up on the whole dignified king thing and grinds his hips upwards against Gladio.

His Shield's hands are firm and heavy on his hips, slowing him down when all Noctis wants is to go faster, to chase down that delicious friction and put out that awful fire underneath his skin. Gladio’s voice is a concerned growl above him. "Iggy, I think he’s burning up."

"An effect of the stimulant, possibly. It may be increasing thyroid hormone levels and in turn, his temperature," Iggy says, a grounding presence somewhere at Noctis' back. "We’ll have to keep him fed and hydrated."

"Keep hydrated," Noctis repeats.

Iggy leans in and Noctis surges up to claim his advisor's lips. They kiss for a second– Two seconds? Maybe three? Too damned short a kiss, if Noctis has anything to say about it. He whimpers and Iggy gently strokes a finger along his jawline.

"Noct? Keep hydrated?" Iggy prompts.

"Petrus said," Noctis tells him, _gods_ , it’s so hard to think when his cock’s so damnably hard, "Keep hydrated."

"Then that’s what we'll do, majesty," Iggy says. Noctis kisses him again, because Iggy's mouth is just there and it'll be an absolute shame not to kiss it. His advisor kisses him back, patient and gentle where Noctis is demanding fervour. He feels Iggy's tongue – fucking amazing tongue, he mentally corrects – teasing his, tracing his bitten, swollen lips.

Then he feels Gladio's hands unzipping him fully and going round his cock, and Noctis chokes out a broken sob into Iggy's mouth. He's dribbling enough pre-cum for Gladio to work him without the use of extra lubrication. Gods. His pants are a total mess, and he's abruptly besieged by a wave of regret for his unfortunate laundry service. They must have felt him tense, because Gladio reaches up with his unoccupied hand to spare Noct a soft, sympathetic squeeze on the waist.

"We've got you," Gladio says. And they do.

His orgasm hits him harder than the first, takes his breath and his thoughts away so he feels adrift in a sea of pleasure. The afterglow is pleasant and comforting, a lulling undertow while his consciousness struggles for the shore. He's only peripherally aware when Iggy gives orders to clear out the corridors and Gladio hauls him up with strong, rock-hard, muscular arms. Between his Shield and his advisor, he's somehow transported back to his bedroom without coming across a single soul, which in itself is a fucking miracle. Gods. They're really fucking miracles.

Gladio puts him down on his mattress – soft, feathered, orgy-sized – hands deftly stripping away his clothes. And Noctis enjoys it for a short moment, before his mind's suddenly alert with the lack of Iggy.

"Iggy," Gladio calls, before Noctis has to.

His advisor comes up from somewhere on the other side of the bed, carrying a glass of water and a faint air of disapproval. He takes a seat beside Noctis, propping him up while Gladio yanks his pants and underwear off. "He needs fluids now, not sex."

Noctis wets his lips, clears his throats to check if his vocal chords are functional. A decade ago, he'll be bristling if he were naked and his Shield and advisor were not. "I'll take both."

"He'll take both," Gladio repeats, smug.

"Majesty," Iggy sighs, but there's a kind of rumbling purr to his voice and Noctis isn't ashamed to admit his cock jumped at the sound, "B _ehave_."

Fuck. When he says it like that… it's completely counter-productive. Noctis swallows down his instinctive response – predictably, 'Make me' – along with a mouthful of water. Then he fists a hand in Iggy's lapels and yanks, spilling the rest of the glass down the front of his advisor's pristine, perfectly pressed, black-on-black suit. He's not sure how Iggy manages to stay so put together even after twelve hours of dealing with idiots, but he'll make an educated guess and go with 'secret royal advisor magic'. Still, no matter how sexy Iggy looks in his duds, Noctis knows he looks a million times better out of them. He grins up at his advisor. "Oops. Guess we'll have to get you out of those clothes, specs."

"Damn, Noct. You're in for it now," Gladio whoops, ditching his own Crownsguard coat and shucking away his pants.

Iggy blinks. He carefully wipes the stray droplets of water off his spectacles, before repositioning it on the bridge of his nose. The now-empty glass goes on the end table with an intimidating thunk, and then Iggy's shirt buttons go popping off, one by one. He twists them free with a suggestive-yet-terrifying flick of the wrist, which does unspeakable _things_ to Noctis' cock – and that's not just because of the sex drug thing.

"Well," Iggy says, trailing leather-clad fingers up the bare skin of Noctis' stomach, "I hate to see such unruly behaviour go uncorrected."

Noctis bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. He falls back into his mattress as Iggy and Gladio lean over him, the heady lust already roaring back to life in his veins. Yeap, definitely in for it.

*

The rest of the night passes in a blur of hot breaths and hotter skin. Noctis isn't one hundred percent in the moment for all of it. Sometimes all he's aware of is the unfathomable banked fire trying to char him inside out, but then he's comforted by the touch of ice cold lips, water trickling into his mouth and a damp towel gingerly brushing over his sensitive skin. He feels safe, well cared for.

He's definitely aware when Promp comes bursting into the room though, yelling, "I can't believe you guys are holding a sex marathon without me!"

Iggy extracts himself from Noctis' arms, sitting up with a nonplussed expression. "Weren't you due for a night in Hammerhead? You're to report in tomorrow, after lunch."

"I flew in with the Type-F," Prompto says, "Sex marathon, dude. Of course I had to _come_."

"Fuck. Not you too," Noctis groans where he's lying face-down in the middle of the bed.

"I fear Gladiolus might have misrepresented the situation," Iggy asserts; there's a dull thump and Noctis figures his Shield's just 'had his behaviour corrected' by his advisor.

Prompto squints at them while disrobing. "I don't know, this totally looks like a sex marathon to me."

"We'll apprise you of the circumstances at a more convenient hour," Iggy says, he pauses for a second, before continuing in a too solicitous voice, "May I see Gladiolus' text?"

"Oh. Sure, here you go." Promp tosses his phone over, despite Gladio's wordless protest from somewhere on the far side of the bed.

Then Iggy's vacating the space beside Noctis and Promp's suddenly there. His eyes glint bright blue in the moonlight as he presses their forehead together. Noctis tilts his face up for a kiss. "Hey."

"Hey, buddy," Promp replies, his lips are slightly chapped, possibly from flying with the top down – after ten years of daemon hunting, he's a certified daredevil. "Holy fuck, we could fry an egg on you."

"Uh, vetoed," Noctis makes a face, he shrugs and tries to repeat Iggy's words, "Keep you apprised circum– something, et cetera, et cetera. Less talk now, more sex."

Promp raises a brow at him, but acquiesces with an entirely cheerful, "You got it."

He dips a hand between them just as Noctis turns on one side, stretching up to press a kiss to Promp's collarbone. Some people used to underestimate Promp because of his wiry frame and smaller stature, but his hands are just as callused and battle-hardened as Gladio's or Iggy's, the skin toughened from repeated chafing where he clasps the grip of his SMG or where he pulls the trigger of his sniper rifle. So when Promp runs a hand down the line of Noctis' neck to playfully tweak one nipple, Noctis is reminded that this is his best friend who chose to stand with him against an entire empire when they had absolutely nothing, even though he wasn't _obligated to_ the way the rest of them were. And he's touched. And also very, very horny. But touched.

He's pulling Promp completely flush against him and enjoying the attention lavished on his nipples, his nape, his belly, his _cock_ – because gods, Promp is seriously handsy – when Iggy begins reading aloud, voice dangerously even, "S.O.S. Dying from sex marathon. Need backup."

There's a beat of silence, then a sharp intake of breath and everyone else in the room winces. "Gladiolus. Are you not aware that the more unscrupulous members of the press may be entirely capable of hacking into–"

"Ouch! Iggy! Okay, I'm sorry! I get it! Ouch!"

*

When morning comes, Noctis is sore all over and feeling every second of his full thirty-five years. His ass hurts, his hips hurt, his back… sort of hurts? Maybe? He's not sure if it hurts, he'll decide in thirty minutes, after he's gone back to sleep and woken up for a third time. He's well on his way to wonderful, peaceful nap-land when his plans are rudely interrupted by Promp, who happily drags his duvet away from him, looking entirely too awake for seven gods damned AM.

"C'mon Noct, up we go, breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"Sleep is the most important meal of the day," Noctis says into his pillow.

"You know you don't make sense in the first half hour you're up."

"I make perfect sense to me."

"Sure you do, buddy," Promp says and hauls Noctis out of bed anyway. He hasn't been so forcefully pulled from sleep since their whole get-back-the-crystal-bring-back-the-light-and-save-our-star road trip.

Iggy has had the foresight and courtesy to set up breakfast in Noctis' private rooms, as opposed to the royal dining hall three floors down. It's a delightful spread, there's bruschetta topped with cured garula meat, smoked salmon, poached chickatrice egg, perfectly toasted heart-shaped waffles, and crumbly, golden tarts with molten strawberry centers. A jug of ulwaat berry smoothie sits chilling in an ice bucket on the side, and Noctis is fifty percent sure that the bucket traditionally holds his dad’s decanters, but. Yeah, he’ll take Iggy’s freshly blended smoothie over any brand of alcohol. Promp skirts round the table and digs into the pastries, even as Noctis parrots, “Desserts will ruin your appetite,” completely on instinct, because that's what Iggy says _all the time_.

It's to the thought of Iggy's quietly disappointed reproach that Noctis starts with the bruschetta while Promp makes a sizable dent in the tarts, the philistine. The bruschetta's great though, the crust just the right side of crunchy and the meat tender, lightly spiced. He knows it's Iggy's own handiwork after a single bite, no one understands Noctis' palate better than his advisor. Noctis chews slowly, savouring the flavour before it goes down his throat. With their hectic schedules, Iggy hasn't done breakfast in a while. He makes it a point to prepare a dish a day, at the very least – says he likes feeding Noctis even though Noctis has assured him that it isn't _necessary_ – but it's often for dinner or supper.

Promp pushes a black folder across the table, in between messy mouthfuls of tart. "This is from DoNaH, by the way. Iggy says you'll probably want to read it."

"Oh, yeah," Noctis flips it open, scanning through the keywords which include 'scourge paralysis' and 'medication-assisted muscle therapy', "Was about to have him requisition it for me. Sometimes I think Specs is psychic."

"Sometimes? I think it _all_ the time."

"I assure you I'm not in possession of any extrasensory abilities, clairvoyance or otherwise," Iggy says, striding in with a huge-ass mug of Ebony that always seems a little at odds with the stiff-necked image he's pointedly cultivated.

"Not helping your case, Iggy," Promp says.

Noctis sighs. "Even your entrances are perfectly timed."

"It's simply the result of meticulous planning," Iggy sets his cup down – a sign of true love, definitely – to peck Promp on the lips, then Noctis, "And a keen eye for fleeting opportunities, honed by years of avid wordplay."

Noctis frowns at the bitter taste of caffeine on his advisor's lips. "So you're saying, making bad puns have turned you psychic."

"Certainly."

"Shit. Then I should have been psychic years ago!" Promp complains.

Iggy shrugs gallantly, before taking a seat to Noctis' right. "I'm sure it will come to you eventually."

They're almost done cleaning the plates of every last morsel when Gladio makes an appearance. He swaggers through the double doors, wearing a tight sort of grin that's not quite his I-just-had-crazy-monkey-sex smile. Even though he _has_ – just had crazy monkey sex, that is. They've been at it for seven hours. Noctis narrows his eyes at him. Because sexed-silly Gladio is always a little… lazier, but there's something about the set of his Shield's lips, or maybe his brows, that's harsher than what Noctis expects after an all-night sex marathon.

"I went down to talk to Petrus about the drug he gave you," Gladio announces.

Fuck. Noctis grimaces. "I hope you didn't scare the kid shitless."

" _No_. That'll be like kicking a puppy," Gladio replies, affronted – he continues after a huff, "He gave me this after I cleared the air. Said it’ll be better for you."

Another white, unlabelled pill bottle, completely identical to the first, rattles as Gladio sets it in the middle of their breakfast table, looking deviously innocuous while it sits there, doing nothing. Noctis can't help but feel like it's taunting him, staring him down with a perfectly blank poker face. Well, two can play at that game.

"I think I’ve had enough of sex drugs, thanks."

Gladio picks the pill bottle up, rattling it again. "You sure? Petrus says this one’s definitely safe for consumption. Guard's honour."

"Yeah, I’m sure."

"Look, I’ll test it for you."

"Wait, don’t–" Noctis gapes as Gladio pries the lid open, pops a pill into his mouth and swallows. "Fuck– Spit it out right now."

"No can do, princess."

"Gladio, I'm serious," Noctis stands, lunging for his Shield, although he's not quite sure what he's going to do once he's caught him – stuff a finger down his throat maybe, his Shield's lack of gag reflex may pose a problem then again, "If you end up with a hard-on from hell, you're going to have to deal with it on your own. None of us are up for another seven hours of sex!"

They play a game of cat-and-mouse through the bedroom and the parlour, but Noctis eventually gets a hold of Gladio with a well-timed tackle. His legs straddle over that wide, solid chest when Gladio hits the ground, and he has a moment to mull over how well his Shield's aging, _because those pecs feel just as good as they did a decade and a half ago_ , before he remembers this is no time to be admiring anyone's chest.

"Specs, do we have emetics in the medicine cupboard?"

"I'm afraid not, Noct. I wouldn't recommend using them on Gladio, in any case. I don't believe he's taken actual stimulants in that awfully dramatic show he put on three minutes ago."

"Painkillers," Gladio answers with a grin.

"Seriously?" Noctis groans, punching his Shield in the shoulder, "I can't believe you made me chase you down. We're too old for this shit."

Gladio shrugs. "Never too old to have fun. Weren't complaining about your aching joints when you were tackling me just now, were you?"

And Noctis stills. It slowly dawns on him that they're – in their own sort-of-sweet and sort-of-awkward way – trying to help him recapture his youth or something, what with the painfully early wake-up and the really nice breakfast and the impromptu game of tag. Obviously, this means Petrus spilled the beans about his impending midlife crisis, but he can't bring himself to blame the kid. Well, not _much_. Noctis knows just how persuasive Gladio can be.

"I wasn't really serious when I made that 'one foot in the grave' comment," Noctis says, clambering off his Shield.

"We didn't hear about that," Iggy says, brow arched, "Nevertheless, we're concerned. If you're feeling… burdened by the weight of Lucis, you can talk to us. We would like it if you did."

"We're here for you," Promp chimes in.

"For anything," Gladio says, "Nothing too small or too dumb to tell us, got it?"

Noctis ponders over that for a second. "Okay, uh, the council thinks the best way to deal with Duscae's bushfires is a rain dance for Ramuh."

Gladio frowns, Promp blinks and Iggy looks like he's about to have a conniption.

"Also, I think someone's going to have to change the ink cartridge for transport's printers, because they're throwing up tiny specks _all over their documents_ , and I've been misreading those for decimal points."

"That can be arranged," Iggy says.

"And um," he pauses, before making a face, "Yeah, my ass hurts. And my hips. And my back, sort of."

It's as if the three of them heave out a simultaneous sigh of relief. Then Gladio grins and holds out the pill bottle. "Painkiller?"

"Thanks."

Iggy clears his throat. "On that note, we'd like to suggest healthier living."

"You're just trying to make me eat my vegetables."

"And exercise," Gladio adds.

"Seriously?"

"Morning jogs!" Promp enthuses.

"Can we… talk about this?"

Which is how all four of them end up meandering the streets together, soaking up the soft morning sunlight and inhaling the fresh smell of dew. Because even if he's not quite up for jogging, 'a stroll every now and then can help revitalise mind and body' – Iggy's words, not his. He finds he doesn't mind it so much. It's kind of fun, walking aimlessly down the clean black asphalt – watching Promp work his camera because 'this lighting's amazing', and listening to Gladio and Iggy's quiet chatter about the latest council gossip.

Somehow, they end up walking by Petrus' store – where the boy's very seriously cleaning his display, a look of mild consternation on his face. Noctis sneaks a glance at his lovers. And when he finds all of them more or less distracted, he catches the kid's eye and gives him a thumbs-up. Then the kid's flushing and stuttering out a weak hello, and Noctis is grinning too wide to be subtle. Promp, Gladio and Iggy are sending him varying looks of fond exasperation when he calls out, "Petrus, a _pleasure_ to see you again!"

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](https://hati-skoll.tumblr.com/post/174872654877/i-saved-our-star-and-now-they-think-im-impotent)


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